Out of the Ashes
by wendymarlowe
Summary: Despite having been in phone and text contact for years, Mycroft only meets Lestrade face-to-face for the first time at Sherlock's funeral. An initial request for coffee blossoms into something more, until Mycroft has to admit something he'd much rather not acknowledge: he and Gregory Lestrade, together, are inevitable.
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft actually met Gregory Lestrade face-to-face for the first time at Sherlock's funeral. It was strange, to say the least - they'd been in text (and occasional phone) contact for nearly fourteen years, but it never went beyond that. Mycroft was pleased to see that the Detective Inspector looked even better in person than he did on the Yard's video footage.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade managed a wavery smile. "No need to introduce yourself, Mr. Holmes - I'd recognize that voice anywhere. Terrible business, what?"

Mycroft inclined his head. "Sherlock was . . . always dramatic." _Still is, the prat_. "I think he'd have been pleased to see his funeral getting so much media attention."

"Bloody right." Lestrade snorted. "He was-" He blinked several times and took a shaky breath. "He was a good man, though, in the end. And I'll never believe those stupid rumors about him being a fraud. I've _seen _what he can do. Don't suppose you can do something about those?"

"I'm working on it." Mycroft could read the telltale strain around Lestrade's occipitofrontalis muscle, drawing his forehead into more wrinkles than he usually possessed, and the tension in his jawline. Guilt, then, hidden among the grief, but trying to put on a good front. He knew his own face was blank, as always, but he allowed a tiny bit of his very real concern for Sherlock to show through. Lestrade seemed to find comfort in the shared emotion.

"Your parents here?" Lestrade asked. "He never talked about them, but I assumed . . ."

"Unfortunately, no. They were both unable to make it." _Unwilling to put on the show required of them._

"God, I'm sorry. That's . . . I'm so sorry, Mycroft. I had no idea things were that distant."

Mycroft didn't miss Lestrade's (Gregory's?) use of his name. It sounded . . . good. He was "Mr. Holmes" to bloody near everybody, and he found himself rather hoping that Lestrade would become one of the few to be excluded from that number.

But when would that happen, now that they didn't have Sherlock there between them? Sherlock had always been the reason for contact, late-night pleas to keep him out of trouble or warnings when he was in danger of slipping back into his old habits. And twice, frantic phone calls when Mycroft became aware that Sherlock was in imminent danger of overdosing. Both times, Lestrade had stepped up admirably, browbeating some sense into the detective and bullying him into giving up the cocaine, at least temporarily. John had rather taken over the watchdog role of late, but Lestrade seemed perfectly willing to stand at the sidelines, ready to intervene if needed.

"It occurs to me I never did thank you properly," Mycroft said, deftly sidestepping the subject of his parents' absence. "For your actions all those years ago. Sherlock was out of control, hated me, actually. He was determined to not listen to a word I had to say, whether or not I was right." He had to work to swallow around the lump in his throat. "You saved him, and I owe you everything for that. At the very least, my sincere thanks."

Lestrade looked down, a faint wash of color tinging his cheeks. _Interesting_. "It was the least I could do," he said quietly. "Your brother was bloody brilliant, and it was all such a _waste _- I just couldn't - just couldn't-" He clenched his fist over his mouth, stifling what would have probably been an audible sob, then looked Mycroft square in the face. "I'm honored to have known him, and that's a fact. Even with - all this - he's made me a better man. Older and a bit grayer, maybe, but better."

Mycroft suppressed his first thought - that Lestrade looked perfectly delicious, gray hair or no - as completely inappropriate for a funeral. Which was why he was caught off-guard when Lestrade's next sentence was, "Come have a drink with me."

He blinked. "Pardon?"

Lestrade smiled a bit. "I know, you probably don't drink, weight of Britain on your shoulders and all. Coffee, then. I just - nobody knew Sherlock better than you, other than maybe John, and I don't want to intrude on him right now. I think - I think it would be good to set some time aside to remember him together, no?"

"Let him be the center of attention one more time?" Mycroft murmured.

And Lestrade broke into a true grin. "Just so. Tomorrow? Or - hell, your schedule is more full than mine, I'm sure. They're calling it 'administrative leave' while they review all of Sherlock's cases, but I know when I'm being shown the door. I can duck out for a cuppa whenever you're free."

Mycroft inclined his head. "Tomorrow morning would be . . . lovely. Ten?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah. Ten. Good." His attention drifted to the other mourners, specifically to the small knot surrounding John and Mrs. Hudson. "I should - I should say something to John, at least. But I'll see you tomorrow."

Mycroft was left standing alone at his brother's funeral with an outwardly-inscrutable expression on his face, wondering if he had just made a terrible mistake. Going out with Gregory Lestrade - even just coffee - would be . . .

_Heavenly_.

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft's car pulled up outside the police station precisely at ten o'clock. Lestrade was waiting for him on the sidewalk with a bemused expression on his face.

"John warned me you'd do this."

Mycroft frowned. "What, pick you up? We didn't actually set a location."

"True - I thought we could walk."

Mycroft blinked. He was rarely surprised, by anyone, but the detective inspector consistently threw off his expectations. "You have a place in mind?" he asked.

Lestrade grinned. "I do. Come on!"

So Mycroft climbed out, sent the driver on back to the office to await further orders, and quickly found himself ambling along the sidewalk next to Lestrade. "I would have assumed you'd want to avoid the cafes near the Yard," he said to break the silence. "Danger of running into someone you know."

"Not where we're going," Lestrade replied, and winked. Actually _winked_. "This place reminds me of you every time I go."

Mycroft felt . . . absurdly flattered. "And how often is that?"

"Almost daily, now that I'm under review and completely unwanted at my own office. Here we are."

_Here _turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall antique bookshop. Mycroft was vaguely familiar with the name, but had never been inside.

"Bookshop that dabbles in coffee rather than the other way around," Lestrade explained as they made their way to the tiny seating area in the back. "Nothing pretentious here - just normal coffee and good British tea - but nearly everyone at the Yard sticks with the bigger chain places closer by. I mostly come because I love the smell."

Mycroft had to concede that it did smell lovely - old books mixed with coffee beans and, underneath that, a faint hint of black tea. He could see why Lestrade might associate the combination with the image Mycroft carefully maintained - educated, proper, unrelentingly British, and (when he was being honest with himself) a touch stuffy. It fit. They both ordered their coffee black, one sugar, and settled into their faded wooden chairs.

"So have you talked to John much?" Lestrade asked without preamble.

_Not likely._ "He's rather avoiding me at the moment," Mycroft admitted. "I'm giving him some space."

Lestrade nodded. "I know he and Sherlock weren't _together _together, but they might as well have been. It's gotta be like losing a spouse."

"They were," Mycroft replied. And then nearly choked on his coffee at the shocked look on Lestrade's face. "I don't think either would have considered it dating," he amended. "But I think one could term them '_together _together' in every other sense of the phrase."

"Christ." Lestrade gulped a too-large swig of his own coffee and then opened his mouth comically wide and winced. "Burned my tongue, sorry. But - really? You have surveillance in their flat or something?"

The image of Sherlock _in flagrante delicto_ with his loyal army doctor was one Mycroft could go his entire lifetime without seeing, thankyouverymuch. "Unnecessary."

"So, what - fuck buddies?"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to wince. "I'd really rather not contemplate that aspect of my little brother's life more than absolutely necessary."

"Right, sorry." Lestrade sobered and toyed with the handle of his coffee mug. "Not really appropriate, under the circumstances. It's just - it's hard to think of him as gone, you know? Sherlock was always so . . . larger than life."

Mycroft snorted. "You should have seen him as a child."

"What was he like? A handful, I'll imagine."

"You wouldn't believe how many nannies we went through."

"Rather like how he went through flatmates before meeting John?"

"Just so." Mycroft took a much more sedate sip of his coffee. Which was surprisingly decent, considering the store obviously only served coffee as a pretense to keep customers there long enough to buy more books. "He ran the first one off when he was three years old. Sherlock went from barely speaking at all - just _looking _at you with those bright blue eyes like he was trying to read your soul - to suddenly talking non-stop about anything and everything. Including repeating some things our nanny had said to herself in private, assuming he wasn't old enough to listen."

"What sorts of things?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Nobody ever told me, and I didn't bother to pry, but I suspect they had to do with her taste in men. Or the variety thereof. She amassed quite a collection of ex-lovers, even in just three years. Nothing illegal, of course, but not something you want your three-year-old charge repeating to your employers."

"So he's literally been like this his whole life."

Mycroft inclined his head.

"Bet it always made it hell for you to bring home girlfriends."

"It would have been futile to try." _In part because I never had time for someone like that, and in part because I was much more interested in boys. _But Mycroft had been in Her Majesty's service for more than enough time for silence on the topic of his preferences to be his habit, so he gave no indication Lestrade's assumption was wrong.

And Lestrade looked like he never even considered there was an alternative. _Disappointing_. Not that Mycroft would have ever actually propositioned him, despite how fit and obviously intelligent he was, but Lestrade's assumption proved he was almost certainly straight.

"How old were you at the time?" Lestrade asked.

"Ten, and just that year going off to school a term at a time. Sherlock really only saw me when I was home on breaks."

"These nannies were yours, too?"

"Nominally." Mycroft cocked his head and turned the discussion toward Lestrade. "What were you like as a child?"

"A hellion." Lestrade chuckled a bit into his mug. "Nah, actually, I was actually pretty boring. My older brother was the bigger troublemaker, between the two of us. Our parents both worked a lot, so it was mostly just him and me."

Mycroft frowned. "I didn't know you had a brother." It hadn't come up on any of the preliminary reports he had run on Lestrade, back when he first took Sherlock under his wing. Which was exceedingly odd - there should have been _something _-

Some emotion passed over Lestrade's face, too quickly for Mycroft to parse. "Lost him when I was fourteen," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry for your loss." The words were automatic, but the sentiment was true.

"Suicide. Charlie ran with a bad crowd, more often than not, and he got mixed up with the dickhead who lived in the flat below ours. Sold pot and acid. There was something of a turf war, I gather, and of course Charlie couldn't keep his mouth shut. He hanged himself in the loo two weeks after his seventeenth birthday."

Mycroft ducked his head. "That's . . . not something any child should have to go through. From his perspective and from yours."

Lestrade took another gulp of his coffee and shrugged with forced nonchalance. "Yeah, tell me about it. Anyway, that's part of why I wanted to talk to you. Just wanted to - hell, I don't know. Wanted to let you know I'm open to listen, if you want me to. I've been there." He snorted. "I know enough about what you do to know that you're bloody close-mouthed when it comes to your job, but I thought your personal life might be different."

Mycroft frowned and worded his response very carefully. "It's not that I don't appreciate your offer. The nature of my work is such that I don't often share details of my life with anyone, though - even details which might sound innocent enough on the surface." H_ell, that's how I gave Moriarty the ammunition to discredit Sherlock_. The thought still made him feel vaguely ill.

Lestrade's expression shuttered. "I suppose I didn't expect any different." He picked up his now-empty mug and started to stand. "The offer's still there, anyway-"

"Wait." Mycroft dared a hand on Lestrade's arm, the contact feeling much more intimate than it ought. "I don't - I've never had someone to talk to. Not like that."

"Can't risk pillow talk bringing down Her Majesty's government?" Lestrade asked with a wry smile.

"Nothing so grand - I'm merely a low-level government official," Mycroft protested automatically.

"Bullshit." Lestrade tapped the side of his nose. "Your access badge let Sherlock walk into fucking Baskerville, unannounced. Pull the other one; it's got bells on."

Mycroft huffed, but he didn't press the issue. "What I meant to say was, I've never been in a position where I both had something to say and had someone trustworthy to say it _to_."

"Forget it," Lestrade replied. "I didn't mean to-"

"I'm saying yes," Mycroft interrupted.

Lestrade froze in the act of pushing in his chair.

"Thank you." Mycroft couldn't believe he was doing this - putting himself in regular contact with Gregory Lestrade was just asking for trouble, where Sherlock's secret was concerned - but the offer was honestly given and there was no way in hell he could turn down the chance to spend more time with this dishy man. Even if it wasn't going to amount to anything because he didn't dare out himself and Lestrade was straight. Just _dreaming _about the possibility of something more was better than his sex life had been allowed for some time.

Lestrade cleared his throat, then recommenced tidying his chair and bussing his mug to the dish basket near the trash can. "When?" he finally asked.

Mycroft mentally flipped through his upcoming calendar. "Friday? What time do you get off work, usually?"

"Five, barring a case."

Which Mycroft already knew, had known for fourteen years, but unlike Sherlock he recognized the value of letting people share details about their lives of their own volition. He pursed his lips and nodded. "Meet you at six, then? Doing dinner sounds awfully formal, but in this case it seems expedient since we'll both need to eat anyway. I'll text you a restaurant Friday afternoon."

"Sounds good." Lestrade smiled, a genuine smile, and nodded toward the front door. "I'd better get back to the Yard. Not that anyone will care that I've been gone, but I do like to at least pretend I've been hard at work."

"Until Friday, then," Mycroft said, adding a polite nod farewell.

He immediately spent every free moment of the next few days trying to decide which restaurant, in all of London, would work best for a not-date with Gregory Lestrade.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade slid into his seat with an appreciative look around the dining room. "Must say, this is not at all what I expected," he announced.

Mycroft had eventually settled on an upscale Chinese venue, inauthentic enough to actually provide a menu in English but a significant step up from the takeaway Lestrade had practically lived on since his divorce. "I hope I haven't disappointed you."

"No, not that." Lestrade shrugged. "I assumed you'd pick somewhere with white tablecloths and an unpronounceable wine menu, that's all."

"You assume I can't eat Chinese?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You're a posh bloke with a public school accent - I rather thought this would be slumming it for you." He looked down abruptly and reddened a bit. "Sorry, didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"I don't know anyone's ever rolled their eyes at me before, wot wiv the posh bloke thing," Mycroft responded, deliberately shifting his vowels forward and emphasizing the glottal stops in the coarse Cockney accent. The effort was worth it for the stunned look on Lestrade's face.

"Do that again."

"Grew up with Sherlock, remember," Mycroft said, pulling the "r"s forward in a West Country burr. "He's the natural mimic, but we used to be able to guess each other's accents down to the county, sometimes."

"Christ, how many of those can you do?"

"Most of them," Mycroft replied in his own voice once again. "It's come in handy, on occasion."

"You haven't always done desk work," Lestrade guessed.

Mycroft neither confirmed nor denied it.

"Yeah, didn't think you'd admit it, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft winced. "Call me Mycroft, please. I'm not at work. And you already do anyway, in your head." _Plus I rather liked you being too familiar with me before._

Lestrade grinned. "Mycroft, then. It's a bit creepy when you do things like that, you know. Bloody telepathic. Sherlock was just as bad."

"Hardly telepathy, just keen observational skills."

"Right."

It was his chance to press his advantage, and Mycroft had never been the type to back down. "May I call you Gregory?"

"You'd be the only one."

_Shit_. "My apologies, then, Detective Inspector. I didn't mean to presume on-"

Lestrade shook his head. "No," he interrupted. "I like it. It fits you. By all means, call me Gregory."

"Ah."

They sat in semi-awkward silence for a few minutes, looking over the menu (Lestrade's in English, Mycroft's in Cantonese). Lestrade waited for the server to bring their drinks and leave with their orders before choosing a new topic.

"So. Moriarty."

_Ah. _Not a surprising choice, given that Sherlock was the only thing the two of them had ever really shared. "He's really and truly dead, under questionable circumstances, but his network is proving . . . difficult . . . to penetrate with any degree of success."

"But you're trying?"

"Of course." Mycroft sipped his tea, betraying nothing of the exhaustive struggle Sherlock was undergoing to break into said network. "I have the utmost confidence in Her Majesty's government's ability to handle these sorts of operations."

Lestrade eyed him over the rim of his own cup. "Which means you're doing all the work."

Mycroft shrugged.

"We're in good hands then."

Mycroft kept his gaze on his plate, but he studied Lestrade in his peripheral vision. Open, honest expression, slightly pinched look like he was being overworked (or underworked, rather, but stressed about the fate of his career just the same). As far as Mycroft could tell, he was actually, honestly happy to be having dinner together, talking about nothing in particular. And he meant it when he implied trusting Mycroft was being "in good hands." It was . . .

"I can't remember the last time I shared a meal with someone who actually wanted to be there," he said softly. It was more than Mycroft would usually admit, and the honesty required to say it felt uncomfortable on his tongue, but the fact needed to be expressed. "I'm finding this surprisingly comfortable."

A hint of a smile appeared on Lestrade's lips, quickly suppressed. "Why surprising?"

Mycroft twitched one shoulder upward, a half-shrug intended to convey more nonchalance than he truly felt. "I don't know - I'm not often surprised anymore."

"I bet you're not." Lestrade cocked his head to the side, studying him across the table. "You're an intriguing man, Mycroft Holmes," he finally pronounced.

"I assure you, I'm really not-"

"Yes you are," he interrupted. "You're so tightly controlled, but I get the feeling you're desperate for the chance to unwind sometime. And I'd love to be there when you do."

Images of Lestrade - Gregory - naked and reclined in bed swam before Mycroft's eyes. He immediately tried to push them away, but the longer Lestrade studied him, the more erotic the pictures got. Mycroft could feel the blush staining his cheeks, but he could no more will it away than he could fly.

"Interesting," Lestrade murmured, and reached for his glass again.


	4. Chapter 4

Gregory ducked into the car and sank into the leather seat with an almost obscene moan. "Fucking terrible day," he said without opening his eyes.

Mycroft had to concur, not that he could actually talk about it. The Pakistanis were being a bloody nuisance, and he was thoroughly sick of the international pissing contest. Pretty much the only thing that kept him from writing them off entirely and possibly starting World War Three was the thought of his regular weekly dinner with Gregory waiting for him at the end of it all. Six weeks in and they were still finding new things to talk about - and and he was still being surprised on a regular basis. Even the night's choice of restaurant, this time around - it was Gregory's turn to choose, but he was being stubbornly tight-lipped about it.

"You'll need to tell the driver a destination eventually," Mycroft commented.

Gregory snorted. "We're celebrating tonight - which means you get to come slumming it with me. Oh great and mysterious driver, the Tube station nearest my flat will be perfect. I assume you already know which one that is."

Clarkson's eyes met Gregory's in the mirror, but he obediently pulled away from the kerb and set off. Mycroft made a mental note to send the man an extra something as thanks - he had never specifically requested Clarkson learn anything about Gregory, but obviously he had taken the initiative to map out the most likely destinations. Not unexpected, for the caliber of employee Mycroft preferred to attract, but worth acknowledging all the same.

"Are you going to tell me what we're celebrating?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.

Gregory mirrored it. "Are you going to tell me you don't already know?" The put-on expression faltered, and a grin broke through. "Just teasing you - of course you already know, but I suppose it would be rude for anyone but me to say my divorceiversary is a cause for celebration."

Mycroft had known, or would have if he'd have bothered to recall, but Gregory was right - it would have been impolitic to mention it. "I'm rather sure that's not a word," he murmured instead.

"Should be. The one-year anniversary of my divorce deserves some sort of recognition. And I'm shocked you're more worried about my grammar than about the fact that I've declared we're going to be slumming it for dinner."

"I place my culinary satisfaction in your hands."

Gregory's grin widened. "Damn right you do. I called ahead - we're going to pick up Indian at my favorite little hole-in-the-wall, then take it back to my flat and wash it down with the very generous bottle of Scotch my team got me yesterday to commemorate the occasion. It's a good one, apparently, so you've got no excuse to turn your nose up at it."

"I . . ." Mycroft frowned. He didn't drink often. Hardly ever, as a matter of fact, just a half-glass of something when diplomacy demanded it and inconspicuously virgin drinks the rest of the time. A well-bribed bartender was an invaluable asset - and if Mycroft's drinks ended up decked out with all the expected frills but strangely absent of alcohol, well, it was probably better for world peace that way. He couldn't risk an international incident cropping up at a time he was incapable of dealing with it.

"Hey," Greg said quietly after more silence than Mycroft had intended. "I get it, and there's no pressure. I do intend to get a bit tipsy tonight, though, and it'll be a lot less pathetic if you're there with me. I deserve it, between the day I've had and the fact that it's a special occasion."

Mycroft's eyes only met Clarkson's for a fraction of a second in the mirror, but it was enough. Clarkson didn't think he would do it. Mycroft felt an - admittedly childish - impulse to agree just to be contrary. A drink with Gregory wasn't that ridiculous in the grand scope of things, was it? Anthea was perfectly capable of holding the country together for a few hours, and a drink or two wouldn't be all that incapacitating.

"I leave the details of the evening to you," he finally said. And was rewarded by a flash of something promising in Gregory's eyes.

* * *

"Hole-in-the-wall" turned out to be a rather generous description for the lilliputian Indian restaurant Gregory favored. Mycroft didn't eat much Indian food, as a rule, but Gregory seemed to have ordered one of everything (going by the size of the takeaway bags) and between the two of them they managed to convey everything to the flat. Mycroft's security detail stayed well back - Anthea would have had Gregory's flat swept and the two of them followed the minute Gregory announced his plan for the evening, of course, but it was nice to just pretend they were walking, alone, enjoying a quiet night in with takeaway and the telly. Watching rugby, no doubt.

"It's England versus South Africa tonight, right?" he asked.

Gregory stopped and goggled at him. "You follow rugby?"

Mycroft shrugged. "No, but you do, so I memorized the teams and the schedules. I thought it would make an adequate topic of conversation if we ever ran out of something more interesting to talk about."

A long pause, then Gregory threw his head back and _laughed_. "Christ, Mycroft, never change. You're utterly brilliant, you know that?" He shook his head. "You sounded just like Sherlock there for a minute, albeit with more social skills."

"Not a comparison we ever got often." Mycroft gave an exaggerated shudder. "Sherlock's sense of propriety was never all that well-developed."

Gregory shrugged, sobering. "Not a day goes by I don't miss him, you know. I end up just sitting there at my desk, poring over paperwork, and I _know _Sherlock could have walked in and solved the case in five minutes flat. It would be worth the condescension and the insults just to have his help sometimes. Hell, I _miss _the condescension and the insults." They reached his door, and he unlocked it deftly while balancing his half of the mountain of Indian food in his other hand. "Sorry, I did clean, but there's really not much in here. Functional for a bachelor, I guess, but Annie got most of the good furniture in the divorce and I haven't particularly made the effort to replace it."

"I'm sure it's fine." Mycroft followed him inside and made a point of not looking around. Not that he didn't take it all in at a glance, of course - the faded wallpaper, the peeling linoleum tile in the kitchenette, the slight water stains on the ceiling near the window. Everything a bit shabby, but nothing unsanitary or dangerous. Practical, then - the cheapest option in a passably safe neighborhood a reasonable commute from the Yard. A good choice for a recently-divorced man with no one to impress. Mycroft set his bags down on the smallish kitchen table and set about trying to be helpful as Gregory dug out forks and plates.

The food was good. Mycroft ate more than he intended to, but it seemed that Gregory had ordered a bit of everything to share and somehow by the time they both finished, they ended up sharing the (slightly battered but surprisingly comfortable) sofa and Gregory was pouring two glasses of Scotch. The rugby match was on the telly in the background, sound muted and largely ignored. The scene was domestic in a way Mycroft couldn't recall ever having actually experienced in person.

"So." Gregory lifted his glass in a mock toast, then took a long sip. It was his fourth (Mycroft's second), but only the slight flush in his cheeks betrayed him. "To my divorceiversary, I guess?"

"A regrettable issue, but I hope it leads to future happiness."

"Diplomatic as always." Gregory eyed Mycroft over the rim of his glass. "Do you ever unbutton?"

Mycroft glanced down at his suit, still in good shape despite his long day. "I wasn't aware I needed to," he admitted.

"Not like -" Gregory waved a casual hand at Mycroft's torso. "I meant metaphorically. Unbutton, let your hair down, whatever. What do you do to relax?"

_Not much._ Mycroft had to think for a moment to find examples. "I read," he finally said. "I play the piano on occasion. I meditate. And I collect things."

"Antique snuffboxes? Rare books?"

"Bells, actually." He shrugged. "It's . . . rather expected, in diplomatic circles. In much of the world, it's a custom to bring a gift to your host, and that includes business and political hosts as well as personal. It's polite to collect something, so other people know what to get you."

"And you collect bells."

"Not with any particular enthusiasm, but yes. Sometime if you're ever at my house, I can show you the display room."

Gregory chuckled and took another drink. "Christ. Just when I start to get used to you being all posh, you say things like that. You have a whole room for them?"

Mycroft abruptly felt embarrassed - it's not like he was trying to show off, worked very hard to avoid it in fact, but sometimes his background left him more socially handicapped than he liked. Apparently having a room dedicated to displaying one's bell collection wasn't on, especially when one was sitting on his friend's threadbare sofa, eating takeaway off chipped plates and drinking Scotch from a whiskey tumbler.

"Hey." Gregory caught on to his distress immediately. "Sorry, that was rude of me. You've been more than willing to go along with my low-rent dinner suggestions; I shouldn't mock you for having a few things on the other end of the spectrum."

_That doesn't help._ "I am actually a real person, Gregory, much as Sherlock might have told you otherwise."

Gregory grinned and leaned back against the cushions, the very picture of relaxation. "Yeah, it does peek through sometimes. Tell me something real about you."

"What kind of something real?"

"Hmmm - first kiss. Details. Was it as awkward as mine was?"

That whole facet of Mycroft's life had _awkward _stamped all over it, but he gamely tried to distill some of his teenage fumblings into a semi-coherent story. "First girl I kissed was Sarah Edgewater - she was supposed to be minding Sherlock, but she was only two years older than I was and Sherlock was determined to be a complete berk for most of that summer. I was only home on weekends, but she and I snuck a few quick kisses and fumbles in when we got the chance. Sherlock realized almost at once, of course, but I bribed him to keep his mouth shut for almost a month."

"How old were you?" Gregory asked.

Mycroft had to think a moment and do the math. "Fifteen. She was seventeen, and Sherlock was turning ten."

"Yeah okay." Gregory leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees. "I said first kiss, though, not first kiss _with a girl_. I did notice you made the distinction. What was your first ever kiss, then?"

Mycroft froze. It was unlike him, not to have his smooth diplomatic mask at the ready, but Gregory had once again surprised him.

"Me first, then?" Gregory asked. "Fine, I was fourteen, his name was Brad Samuelson, and he had the most amazing blue eyes. He was the one who actually got me through math class - I guess we studied enough during our study sessions for me to actually absorb something. Your turn."

Mycroft blinked. "Oh."

"Yeah, _oh_." Gregory cocked his head to one side, studying him. "You are gay, right? I mean, it's been a while for me, obviously, but my gaydar usually isn't wrong. And you're always so circumspect about that aspect of your life."

"That's because I've never really had much choice." Mycroft immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut - maybe a glass and a half of Scotch was over his limit. "I mean-"

"I get it," Gregory interrupted. "There's a difference between legal and accepted, no? Hell, I'm not going to pretend that very issue didn't play into me ending up with Anne and 'rounding up' to straight for a while. A very long, very boring while." He snorted. "I'm not really one to offer judgement, though, am I?"

Mycroft dropped his chin to his chest, a silent acknowledgement. "Actual first kiss, then - Calvin Reddings, a neighbor boy who lived near the family estate. We were both fourteen. It was awful - not at all what I had hoped. Stilted and awkward and slimy all at the same time. I hope he's gotten better at it sometime over the last thirty years."

Gregory _hmmm_ed in the back of his throat. "And you? Have you gotten better at it?"

"I . . . wouldn't know?" Mycroft found his breath coming more shallowly the more Gregory leaned forward. "I've never tried to kiss myself."

"May I?" Gregory was close, now, very definitely hovering in Mycroft's personal space. His lips were slightly parted, inviting. "If you hate it, we can always blame it on the Scotch later."

"You planned this," Mycroft whispered.

Gregory just smirked in response. And closed the gap.

The first brush of his lips was cool, impersonal. The second started a wash of fire running from that single point of contact and flashing over Mycroft's entire body. He moaned, some tiny inarticulate sound, and Gregory took that as permission to shift closer and deepen the kiss.

He was drowning. This had to be what drowning felt like - a slow, inexorable drag into the unknown. Mycroft vaguely remembered hearing that drowning was actually quite pleasant before you lost consciousness, your body starved for oxygen and flooding your brain with rush after rush of neurotransmitters in a last desperate bid for freedom. He felt that rush now, the frantic firing of overwhelmed synapses as the final vestiges of his propriety gave way under the gentle pressure of Gregory's assault.

There was a hand at the nape of his neck, now, insistent and controlling, holding his head still so Gregory could shift the angle of their kiss and _oh_. Mycroft allowed Gregory to tease his lips apart, insinuate his tongue between them, wrangle a helpless groan in reply. Mycroft couldn't remember ever having felt so completely out of his depth and yet so _right_. Gregory pressed closer, gently drawing out Mycroft's shivers and sighs and tiny sounds of supplication until Mycroft felt like his entire body was strung out like a thin wire, tense and vibrating and in danger of snapping if Gregory were to ever stop. His own hands clutched the fabric of Gregory's shirt in self-defense, desperate to anchor themselves against the relentless waves of _sensation _breaking over him.

Gregory eventually gentled the kiss, drawing back just far enough for both of them to catch their breath. Mycroft was panting as if he had just run for miles, his composure shredded and his mind a perfect blank. The twin spots of color high on Gregory's cheeks went a long way toward soothing any embarrassment he might have felt at being so easily affected, although they didn't mitigate it completely.

"Bloody hell," Gregory whispered, the words barely more than a puff of air against Mycroft's lips. "That was . . ."

". . . incredible," Mycroft whispered back.

They stayed like that for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, Gregory's fingers still sifting through the fine hair at the nape of Mycroft's neck. Eventually Mycroft unclenched his hands, one deliberate finger at a time, and let go of Gregory's shirt. Then the moment broke, and they both sat back to put more space between them.

"Was that okay?" Gregory asked quietly. "I mean, I didn't _plan _that, necessarily, but I did kind of _hope_-"

"Hey." Mycroft brushed one curled finger under Gregory's chin, lifting it up so Gregory could look him in the face and see the honesty there. "Don't you dare apologize."

"Oh, I wasn't," Gregory replied with a bit of a smile. "I may be going to hell for plenty of other things, but I'll be damned if that was one of them."

The instinctive semantic response - that, by definition, Gregory _couldn't _be damned for something that wasn't sending him to hell - faded as Gregory's expression turned worried. For all he had been the confident aggressor, Gregory was still unsure of his reception. Mycroft couldn't resist lifting one hand to cup his cheek. "Thank you," he said softly. "I haven't been kissed like that in years." _Or ever,_ his always-helpful brain corrected. "I wouldn't be averse to trying that again sometime."

Gregory returned his tentative smile with a wistful one of his own. "You're leaving now, is what you're saying."

". . . Yes." Mycroft glanced down at his half-full glass of Scotch. "Don't misunderstand me; you're an amazing man and this isn't a prelude to me having some sort of crisis. I just . . ."

"Hey." Gregory leaned forward to brush a perfunctory kiss on Mycroft's cheek. "I get it - it's kind of a lot take in at once, am I right?"

Mycroft nodded silently.

"Let me know what you decide, then." Gregory swept their dirty plates off the coffee table and stood. "I hope I'm not being too forward when I say I'd love for this to be something more." He walked the dishes to his kitchen, where there was the clink of the cheap imitation china as he dumped them in the sink, then he reappeared in the doorway with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Can I be blunt?"

"If you wish."

"I haven't been with a man in nearly twenty years, and Anne and I weren't exactly tearing it up in the bedroom before the divorce was finalized either. I'm starved for it and I'd like nothing more than to drag you into my bed this very minute and see how rusty I really am at this." He looked away and ran his fingers nervously through his short hair. "Not like you couldn't read that on me anyway, I'm sure, but I wanted to get it out in the open. So yeah. Go home and think, or whatever. And if you decide you don't want me, then that's that and we can just get together to chat sometimes as mates and it'll be fine, really. But I just wanted you to know I'd rather . . . yeah."

This was a chance to confess - _my only experience with that is theoretical, I've been closeted my whole life, I've never gone past juvenile snogging and a few fumbled gropes _- but Mycroft kept his mouth shut. He wasn't entirely sure why. Force of habit, maybe, or decades of trying to make just _imagining _feel like enough. But if he were to do this, to make this just-mates arrangement into something more, it would mean admitting his near-complete naivete at everything sexual. And that wasn't something he had the first idea how to do.

"Right." Gregory swept up the Scotch and the two glasses, disappearing into the kitchen again and taking quite a bit longer than was absolutely necessary. By the time he came back out, Mycroft had texted Clarkson to bring the car around and was straightening his suit as best he could without a mirror.

"Next week, then?" Gregory asked, a touch of uncertainty in his voice.

_Next week. _Mycroft could commit to at least that much. He nodded, a bit stiffly. "I'll pick you up when you're done with work. Call me if you've got a case and have to postpone."

The corners of Gregory's mouth twitched upward a minuscule amount. "Postpone, not cancel?"

"Not letting you cancel." Mycroft darted forward before he could think better of it and pressed an awkward kiss to the corner of Gregory's mouth. "I promise, next week will be a proper date."


	5. Chapter 5

The following Friday at precisely five o'clock, Mycroft stood in the drizzle outside the Yard and waited for Gregory to finish up. The Detective Inspector must have been in a hurry to escape, too, because he appeared less than a minute later.

"I'm actually kind of disappointed to discover that's an actual umbrella," Gregory said by way of greeting. "I was kind of hoping it was really a laser gun or a hidden sword or something."

"Laser gun?" Mycroft mulled that over for a moment. "Nothing so futuristic, I'm afraid. Although it does have a GPS transponder. I never lose it."

Gregory laughed at that, then shifted into Mycroft's personal space so the umbrella shielded both of them. It was too intimate for two "just friends" straight men, too revealing for any onlookers, but Mycroft couldn't bring himself to step away. The promise from the previous week's kiss crackled between them.

"Seems like a rather extreme measure for an ordinary umbrella, if you ask me," Greg teased. "You must really love it."

"The transponder is for me," Mycroft admitted. "In case any . . . issues crop up. It also houses a panic button."

Gregory blinked. "That's . . . slightly terrifying, actually," he said slowly. "That it would be necessary. Although I'm glad you're cautious."

Mycroft shrugged. "International politics involves large stakes." He'd survived three attempts on his life so far, but there was no reason for Gregory to know that. None of them had been close calls. "Speaking of which, though, I'm afraid I'm going to have to do something terribly rude. Our destination is quite a ways out of London tonight, and it's rather necessary for me to finish a few more hours of work so I can have more time with you tomorrow. You did say you had nothing planned this weekend, correct?"

Gregory froze and blinked at him. "You're planning a weekend away with me?"

_Should I have asked first? _Mycroft had the distinct impression this was perhaps "not done" in secrecy, but it was safer this way, and he hated telegraphing his moves when he was away from home . . . "You asked last week what I do to - I believe your phrase was 'unbutton.' I wanted to show you. If you have the time?"

"Yeah - I mean, I've got no plans, like I told you before - but I didn't exactly bring a change of clothes with me to work this morning. Wasn't expecting more than an evening. Can we stop back at my place so I can throw a bag together?"

"No need - my assistant has taken care of it. You'll find everything you need at the estate."

Gregory's mouth dropped open. "Estate. You mentioned that once before, but I thought you were kidding. You're not secretly royalty or something, are you?"

_Not by blood, anyway. _Mycroft had spent enough time with various members of the royal family to be secretly glad of that fact - his own familial issues were bad enough. "Not royalty. No title. Just a very old family."

"Christ." Gregory snorted, then sucked in a deep breath. "Yeah, okay, why not? You said this time would be a real date, and I guess a weekend getaway counts."

"Thank you." Mycroft gestured toward the sleek black limousine idling at the curb. "Unfortunately, like I said, I must finish up a few things in the car as we go. And the nature of my work being what it is, confidentiality issues dictate we can't sit next to each other while I do it. If you wouldn't be too terribly offended, would you mind riding up in front with Anthea until I finish? It's not ideal - I'd love to have the time to talk with you - but some of these tasks are extremely time-sensitive."

Gregory stepped out from under the umbrella, eyes fixed on the car. "This is bloody ridiculous, is what this is."

Mycroft's heart sank. "I'm sorry, it's unforgivable of me to have asked. It makes me a terrible host. I'll put it off-"

"Not that, you berk," Gregory interrupted. "The limo. You have a fucking limousine."

"It's not mine, personally, but I did borrow it for the weekend." Mycroft eyed Gregory - despite his outburst, he didn't seem angry. Seemed intrigued, actually. "Her Majesty's service keeps it on hand for . . . special guests. It's regularly swept for surveillance, the back compartment can be completely soundproofed and isolated from the front, and it's resistant to bullets and most smaller explosives. It's one of the few places I can safely do . . . what I do."

"Who borrowed it last?"

"The President of the United States, I believe." Mycroft frowned. "Does it matter?"

"Not a bit." Gregory grinned. "Just curious, is all. But yes, fine, let's get out of the rain. You're bloody brilliant, you know that? Jesus, a weekend kidnapping. Anthea's driving, I assume?"

Anthea chose that moment to open the front door from the inside - not how a professional chauffeur would have done it, but she hated being mistaken for house staff and frequently did little things like that to get under Mycroft's skin - and within five minutes they were all safely in the limousine and slowly moving through the London traffic. Mycroft waited a few minutes to ensure both Anthea and Gregory were settled, then raised the opaque wall between the two compartments. He could still hear Gregory and Anthea, but they couldn't hear or see him.

"He do this often?" Gregory asked her quietly.

Silence, which Mycroft knew to interpret as Anthea's irritatingly eloquent (but entirely faked) non-interest. Gregory didn't take the hint, though.

"So an estate. Like a mansion?"

More silence.

"At least warn me - are he and I going to be dodging servants in some bloody castle the whole weekend, or will we get the place to ourselves? Are you bunking with us?"

A long pause, then Anthea sighed. "I will stay in the dower house, as I usually do. The only other staff will be Mr. Holmes' security team, and you won't even see them if they're good at their jobs. Please stop fussing, Detective Inspector. It's a long drive."

Gregory spent the rest of the next three hours either staring out the window (silently) or dozing (with a bit of a snore). Mycroft finished as much paperwork as he could, made the most essential phone calls, sent a few dozen emails in the hopes of delegating any country-wide collapse until Sunday, then allowed himself to doze as well.

* * *

They didn't reach the house until well after dark, even with the cool spring evening staying light as late as it did. Gregory roused when the car turned into the gravel drive, blinking sleepily.

"Hey. Guess I napped a bit."

Mycroft double-checked that everything was stowed back in his briefcase, then lowered the screen. "I truly am sorry to have ignored you so far," he said, hoping Gregory would read the sincerity on his face. "You must be famished by now."

Gregory muffled a yawn. "Yeah, guess I am, a bit. Are we here?"

"You'll be able to see it once we round this last bend. I asked for supper to be ready for us - we'll worry about everything else later."

Mycroft knew he had perhaps allowed Gregory to be misled a bit in his preconceptions, but he still had to smile at the man's outright bark of laughter when the house finally came into view. The porch lights were on - meaning the security team had finished their sweep - and the completely average size of the plain wooden house was easy to see.

"You berk," Gregory said with an amused huff. "Here you're going on about an estate, and Anthea said there was a dower house, and I was picturing a bloody mansion."

"I have no idea why you'd get that impression," Mycroft replied with a perfectly straight face. "This was the house Sherlock and I grew up in, but our parents retired to Scotland several years back. I like to keep it available for occasional escapes to the country. It's blessedly isolated, as you probably guessed from the long private drive."

"Yet it has a dower house?"

"Yes - the carriage house was converted into a small apartment back in the 1950s." He shrugged. "It provides a good command center for the security systems, and will keep my team from being underfoot while we're here. Any other questions?"

Gregory grinned. "Just one - what's for dinner?"


End file.
